To Whatever End
by GreenWood Elf
Summary: A.U. After the War of the Ring, Faramir travels to Edoras with his sickly, pregnant wife to foster diplomatic ties between Rohan and Gondor, only to cross paths with the cold yet enthralling White Lady, Eowyn.
1. Prologue

**Author's Note: **Hello and welcome to the prologue of "To Whatever End". I have only a few short, but important notes before I begin. Firstly, this story is A.U. and includes both a Faramir/OC pairing and the traditional Faramir/Eowyn pairing. If any of you have read my fics before, you know I am terribly fond of the question "what if"? This fic, therefore, is an attempt to answer a question that jumped into my mind some time ago. What if Faramir had been married when he meet Eowyn? I originally explored this idea in my one-shot "A Dutiful Husband" and this fic may be considered an expansion of it. However, despite the A.U. tendencies of this story, I do have the deepest, greatest respect for Tolkien's masterpiece, so I will try to abide as close to canon as possible and touch on some of the aspects of the wonderful Faramir/Eowyn pairing. Secondly, although the prologue takes place pre-War of the Ring, the story itself will be set in during the post-War of the Ring years in Gondor and Rohan respectively. Thirdly, please take the time to leave some feedback if you can. Whether you like, hate or couldn't care less about this story, I'd love to hear from you. So often do I get ideas from my reader's critical feedback and of course, I am always happy to hear your opinions. Now on with show! I do hope you enjoy.

**Summary: **After the War of the Ring, Faramir travels to Edoras with his sickly, pregnant wife to foster diplomatic ties between Rohan and Gondor, only to cross paths with the cold yet enthralling White Lady, Eowyn.

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Tolkien's mast piece. However, I do own all OCs mentioned herein.

**To Whatever End-Prologue **

_Minas Tirith, March, 3014 Third Age_

Faramir clenched his hands into tight fists and stared at his knuckles. They were white, ivory really, akin to the stones that sheltered Minas Tirith. A shaky breath rattled in his throat. The air was warm, too warm…he would suffocate.

No.

Reclaiming what composure he could, the Captain of Gondor managed to stitch himself back together. But the thread of his existence was worn, the tapestry unraveling before he could stop it. He felt decidedly frayed.

The lamps in his apartment were lit with indecently low flames and a small fire growled in the hearth, grumbling as it nibbled at spring saplings. The logs were mossy and exuded a damp perfume. The scent tortuously reminded him of Ithilien. Outside the narrow window, it was raining.

Faramir leaned against the wall, the unadorned divider between his study and bedchamber. A noise troubled him, a little, insignificant thing that could have been mistaken for a scratching mouse. But he knew better.

She was sitting in the chair by the bed. Her legs were crossed and a tiny, slipper shod foot scraped the floor. The silver buckle on her shoe tinkled like a bell set upon a shopkeeper's door.

A strange sound it was, not loud, not whispered, but troubling. Faramir unclenched his fists and ran his hands over his arms. He was cold now. The fine hairs on his arms felt stiff, his heart shooting chilled blood through his veins with all the force of charging mumak. He would much rather be facing a mumak now. The endangered lifestyle of a Ranger was certainly an easier existence than a life of state-and marriage.

Faramir glanced over his shoulder and into the bedchamber. She was still sitting there, foot twitching. The woman, the new bride, the wife…his wife.

The thought did not necessarily fill Faramir with terror. No, guilt was a better word. He felt disgustingly guilty.

_But I am not to blame_, a small voice reminded him. _Nor is she_.

It was all old Denethor's doing and surprisingly, some of Boromir's. Not that he wished to blame either of them, as both father and brother had acted accordingly. But why did accordance have to be so wretchedly dismal?

Faramir decided that it had something to do with the darkening of days, but he had not the time to debate lore, much as he would find it agreeable. Nesting his fingers in his hair, he stifled a sigh against his chest.

It seemed criminal to marry a woman he didn't love and downright terrible to wed a widow. And not only a widow, a mother as well.

"Proven fertility," his father had said after the engagement had been announced, wearing an unusual smile that set Faramir's every nerve on edge.

His wife had an infant daughter that was now residing with her maternal grandmother in Dol Amroth. It was decided that his betrothed's kin would not make the journey to the White City for the wedding. Why, Faramir had not asked. His concern laid markedly elsewhere.

A wife, he was not quite prepared for a wife, nor a family for that matter. It was an awful responsibility, another stone that he would be forced to shoulder in order to please his eternally unsatisfied father.

The rain softened and Faramir's nostrils flared. A balmy, blithe breeze spilled into his apartments, leaking through half-opened windows and cracks and little mouse holes that had been carved by careful rats into the watchful stone. Outside, he detected the delightful strains of music. A high, keening flute chirped accompanied by a gittern and some hollow, hopeful drum. Those in the streets below, the keen-eyed, strong and valorous Gondorians, were celebrating.

And here Faramir stood.

He remembered the roguish smiles of his fellow Rangers, the hearty hands clapped onto his back and the jests. Our Captain, how fortunate is he, they would crow. A pretty, pliant wife he shall have.

Faramir could not reconcile their mirth with his misery and the joy in the streets below was a foreign, mocking thing. Toasts would be proposed this night, raised amidst laughter and whispered promises for the future. The line of Stewards would continue, that merciless entity that devoured man, woman and child alike. And Faramir was simply the next victim.

Cruel, he felt cruel then and selfish. Poor woman, she was trapped in this as much as he.

His wife shifted, the chair protesting with a creak, the silken gown fluttering about her dainty legs. Without warning, desire nipped at Faramir. She certainly was fair enough and to his liking in appearance. And this was his wedding night….

No.

A cold stone of worry dropped into the pit of his stomach. He could not, would not…. She was little more than a child after all. Nineteen. A mother and widow at nineteen. Yet still, he thought of her as innocent, virginal.

Or so Imrahil had spoken of her. Last autumn, Faramir's uncle had arrived rather unexpectedly at the Citadel, a visit that was warranted due to some common concerns he had regarding trade tariffs and Dol Amroth's defense. Faramir himself had been in the city and privy to the seemingly harmless small talk around the dinner table. Then Imrahil had mentioned the "poor widow", the young girl who had been married to one of his lieutenants and was now bereft after a thief of an illness stole her husband away. And so the talk had spiraled on, taking on a life of it's own when Denethor asked after her family connections and was impressed by her standing.

Shortly after, Faramir departed for Ithilien with a certain sense of unease about the whole matter, only to receive a panicked message from Boromir that their father was intending to wed him to the girl. And the elder Hurin, courteous and handsome as he was, wanted naught to do with marriage now.

"There is no virtue which can endear her to me," Boromir had told to his younger sibling in a voice that was both desperate and stubborn. "We shall be miserable, both of us. Why should I take a wife when I am pleased with my warrior ways?"

Dutifully, Faramir had tried to sort the matter out and then in a wind and a whirl, he found himself trapped.

Reflecting on the situation now, Faramir felt as though he should have left her to Boromir.

Another sound grated against his nerves. His wife coughed. Shame made him blush.

What must she think of him? Did she despise him already? Did she hate him for what he was, a poor replacement to the husband she had so dearly loved? Or had her first marriage been arranged as well, a similar dance of state and sacrifice for the supposed good of Gondor?

Useless rumination. Faramir felt very much the coward. To where had his courage fled? Undoubtedly, to a place of greater happiness than the one he now occupied.

He could not, of course, leave her stranded. It would be rude and Faramir was not a rude man. His dear mother had imparted a delicate sense of manners on him even in the short five years he knew her.

"Never leave a lady waiting," she instructed him when they had snuck down to the kitchens early one morning to bake pastries. Boromir had overslept and missed all the fun, the kneading of the dough, the picking of ripe strawberries from the gardens and of course, the tasting.

Those pleasurable times were but faded memories now and Faramir felt more of a boy than a man, as it was. An artless, mindless boy.

He fiddled with the long string that held his tunic closed at the neck. As much as he wanted to be polite, he could not stand to frighten his wife. She seemed the flighty sort and had clung to one of handmaids throughout the ceremony, pale, faint, hidden behind a veil that disguised her features and left him curious. And even at the feast, the wine served did little to bring a blush to her cheeks. Faramir feared she would swoon if he strode into the bedchamber. But as it was, she just kept tapping her foot, shifting, coughing quietly.

The matter was not to be delayed, he decided and feeling like an utter villain, turned inside the chamber. She did not look up when he entered.

He paused for a humiliating, awkward moment by the hearth and pretended to warm his hands. But despite the murmuring heat of the blaze, his blood curdled.

What to say? What to do?

He wished to calm her, to still her and stop that tiny foot from tapping. Straightening, he turned around and dissected her small form from out of the shadows. She had her hands in her lap, the white of her gown complimenting her pale skin…too pale. Faramir thought she looked sickly.

"My lady." He offered her a bow.

She nodded, her brown hair dressed with some sort of scented powder that made it look soft. He wished to touch it, but humiliation kept him far from her. And there was silence, thick, dark silence that swallowed them whole until Faramir had to fight back a scream.

"How fare you this eve, my lady?" he asked in a ridiculous attempt to conjure conversation.

His wife glanced up at him, grey eyes painfully wide and at once burst into tears.

Faramir set his jaw.

This was going to be much harder than he had anticipated.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Well, that's it for now. And yes, Faramir's wife does have a name, but I thought anonymity suited her better as far as the prologue was concerned. In chapter one we jump forward five years later to post-War of the Ring. With any luck, I should have the next chapter posted soon. Again, please let me know what you think of this story. I truly appreciate any and all feedback. Have a great week!


	2. Chapter One

**Author's Notes:** Hello and welcome to chapter one of "To Whatever End". I'm afraid the beginning of this story is rather slow, but then again, I suppose there is no sense in rushing through things. Unlike the prologue, this chapter takes place post-War of the Ring, in the autumn of 3019. I would like to thank everyone who took the time to read the prologue and those that reviewed, **.And.Embers.Rise.**, **Sarahbarr17**, **Kyoluva731**, **Chibi-Kaz** and **Katie0203**. Thanks so much everyone! I was thrilled to receive your comments.

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Tolkien's mast piece. However, I do own all OCs mentioned herein.

**Chapter One**

_Early November 3019 Third Age_

Faramir paused in the outer courtyard to adjust the buckles on his slippers. Slippers, bah! He hated the decidedly feminine feel of the shoe and his thoughts turned to the long line of Stewards. It was indeed a curiosity then, that they all bore the rod of their office with strict masculinity. Amongst the delicate robes, the soft, silk-lined shirts and cotton breeches, Faramir felt undone. But then again, he had never wanted to be Steward in the first place.

A thin, silvery note struck the damp air. Faramir grimaced and ran his tongue along his teeth. He was late, late for the King's council. The pages were already blowing upon their horns. He straightened, threw his dark robes into some state of order and breezed into the inner sanctum of the Citadel. The halls were crowded. Dignified men jostled about his elbows with disgustingly sycophantic glances.

It was strange, Faramir thought, he knew each lord by name and all the detailed dispositions of the gathered dignitaries and yet, they appeared as strangers to him. These men were indeed familiar to him, but in that distant, abstract way one comes to identify with office. He had been a boy of a Ranger when introduced to them and hitherto, had viewed each stoic, stony countenance with a soldier's flippancy. Men of law they were, of state and standing. And for long years he had not associated himself with them…until now.

An unconscious, unstoppable blush darkened his cheeks. Faramir ducked his head, feigning contemplation and darted through the thick throng of bodies. Crisp pleasantries were addressed to him as he walked, mutters of…

"My lord."

"Lord Faramir."

and…

"My lord Steward."

The last grated upon his nerves the most and Faramir found his hands clenched beneath the voluminous sleeves of his robes. He entertained the fanciful notion of fleeing back to Ithilien and he would have begun to retreat down the corridor, had Damrod not stopped him first.

Thank blessed Eru for Damrod.

"Captain." The ebony-haired Ranger placed a hand on Faramir's shoulder. "It seems the sea hasn't swallowed you after all. Good."

Faramir whirled about to see his old friend tucked in a corner, dressed in his soldier's garb and smelling of the Wild. The Steward was instantly envious.

"You come to mock me, sir?" he asked as Damrod pulled him out of the veritable stampede that had evolved as soon as the doors to the King's quarters were opened.

"Am I cruel?" Damrod replied with a crafty lift of his brow.

Faramir shook his head, his once long hair now only dusting the surface of his shoulders. That had been another sacrifice for office, as Niriel had mildly suggested that a Steward should not possess a mangy mane. Faramir sighed and felt nearly humiliated by the unchanged Damrod.

"I'll have you know," his friend said, chest swelling with importance, "that the King has sent for me. Rangers do count for something, it seems. He wishes me to join the council so that I might keep things 'grounded', I believe that was his term."

"Lord Anardil must be in hysterics," Faramir drawled with a drawn smile. The stuffy Anardil was the sort of man who viewed warriors as strategic ants meant to be governed, not listened to.

"He is under the chair as we speak." Damrod folded his hands behind his back in a ridiculously formal manner. "But what of you, dear man? You must tell me something of Dol Amroth."

Faramir exhaled sharply. Dol Amroth indeed. What a mistake that had been. Upon first inheriting the office of Steward, Faramir found himself cowed by the King's harried, put-upon ways. It had been a rather unpleasant time, one that urged him to depart…or run, rather. And since Stewards of Gondor were not inclined to abandon their posts, Faramir had searched for an excuse. A short trip to visit his wife's kin in Dol Amroth seemed in order. The King had accepted his reasoning with surprising grace and Faramir took his leave for three weeks. But it had been a mistake, as he found he could only think of his mother's soft smile rising above the foam-flecked waves. And as it was, his wife's kin were a suspicious clan and Niriel did little to foster an alliance betwixt the awkward parties.

Faramir chewed on his lower lip and offered Damrod a suppressed sigh. "Never mind that now. How is the King?"

Damrod was a keen man and with traditional good humor, he overlooked the matter entirely.

"Well enough," he said and shook his head so that rays of sun tumbling through the slanted windows avoided his eyes. "But you put too much store in the worthless words of a poor judge. I have attended only one council thus far." He yawned, exaggerating the legendary boredom of state ceremonies. Faramir had heard such from Boromir who had been forced to endure hours of endless talk and diplomacy in preparation for his Stewardship.

And yet here Faramir stood, wearing the robes and bearing he rod. He suddenly felt as though his skin itched and he rubbed his arms fiercely.

"Captain?" Damrod let his head drop to the side.

"Never mind, friend."

"A common phrase of yours." A saucy chuckle parted Damrod's lips. And then he was suddenly sober, brows falling back into place with a cautious air.

"How fares your lady wife?"

Faramir knew this subject could not be dodged so easily. Coincidentally, it happened to be his most detested topic for conversation, one that evoked inquiries and looks of pity. And Faramir, Captain of Gondor, would not be pitied.

Gathering himself once more, he nodded. "Better."

"And the cough?"

Faramir shook his head. Damrod was wise enough to stay silent.

Faramir flexed his fingers. It was quite hard enough to be partnered with a cheerless girl, but his wife was also…not well.

"Well, I am certain she was happy to see her child," Damrod said. Faramir stiffened, prepared for a second volley of worrisome questions. Fortunately, a polite but punctual page arrived and reminded them both of the ensuing meeting. Faramir, grateful for the excuse, adjusted his heavy robes one last time and pattered after the page, hoping that perhaps he might wear boots unnoticed next time.

* * *

The meeting unfolded as anticipated. A great menagerie of old lords and counselors gathered in the chamber in which Faramir's father had once held sway. And now Faramir himself sat at the King's right hand, out of place, awkward, but composed. Stoicism was indeed a solid virtue.

King Aragorn appeared to be a settled mood, sitting easily beneath the weight of his crown with a reassured smile and sharp, soul-searching eyes. Matters of trade were discussed and debated, as was the constant shift towards recovery after the War. The King accepted his advisors' suggestions with a humble mind and stout heart, speaking wisely on all subjects and often quashing what bickering arose between the men.

After half an hour, Faramir felt the tension slip from his limbs and he relaxed in the stuffy robes. A swift, inviting breeze fingered the light curtains adorning the windows and he detected the earthy scent of the herbs grown in the kitchen gardens below.

Ithilien.

Memories of cold, clear streams and tendrils of mist and moss punctured his thoughts. For a moment he wandered in green fields, stopping to rest beneath the lengthy shadow of an old evergreen. The birds were nesting in the bushes….

"My lord Steward?"

Faramir all but jolted in his chair. Eyes were on him, curious, discerning eyes of old men that looked like his father's and so conjured ghosts.

But he had been daydreaming.

A quick cough cleared Faramir's throat and he presented the council with a stern, attentive countenance. Discussion resumed, though King Aragorn was silent for a time. Faramir felt the man's grey eyes lit upon his face. He shifted in his chair, uncomfortable.

Oh, Ithilien.

Almost all matters of business were settled when the King at last turned to Rohan and tempers flared. Rumblings and rumors of the seemingly wild realm ruptured the stillness. It seemed as though most had forgotten the alliance already and even though Faramir felt naught but the deepest respect for his brother's to the West, he was not at all pleased with the resounding conclusion.

Treaties were not enough. King Eomer was yet young and impulsive. He had not the practiced ways of the lamented Theoden. Things must be secured.

It was Lord Belegorn who suggested a marriage.

"Feel your skin prickle?" Damrod whispered in Faramir's ear as the debate raged on.

The King was otherwise silent until Belegorn rose to his ungainly feet and fostered fetid suggestions.

"The King, as it is," Belegorn promclaimed in a voice that need not have been loud, but was, "has no heirs. I say then, that we choose a woman of high-standing, a maid of Dol Amroth mayhap."

"And now I shiver," Damrod muttered.

A cold stone dropped into Faramir's stomach.

Men of state and law had no right to govern happiness. When would they learn? Was he not perfect living proof of the utter wretchedness cultivated by an arranged marriage? As it seemed on the surface, his union was an unspoken success, even though it had yielded no children. But inside, yes, inside lay the truth of things, the black bile, the sickness that infected his life, shortening every breathe with misery.

And yet perhaps he was being too harsh on poor Niriel. Faramir chided himself mentally, curbing his frustration with a frown. He _did _have a tendency to blame the other partner in their fumbling dance, though just as often he had trod on his wife's toes as she had sometimes trampled on his. Niriel never made things easy though and her constant languishing about, her pale, cold way of life contrasted vilely with his own.

Faramir grimaced. And now he was blaming his wife for being sickly. No wonder why she feared him so, villain that he was.

"Lord Faramir?"

Faramir tensed. Again, his thoughts had wandered. Blast! Now the King's cool eyes were on him and he felt an uncomfortable blush touch his cheeks.

"Sire?" he asked, folding his hands neatly on his lap.

"I wonder if you might venture your opinion on this matter?" the King continued. He had turned in his chair, palm perched on his hip and was facing Faramir. "I am unfamiliar with the custom of arranged wedlock. Do enlighten me."

Before he could quell it, anger split Faramir's stoicism and hardened his gaze. Of course, the King was _unfamiliar _with arranged marriage. The man had wed for love, for happiness. Did the King think to mock him now? To separate him from the herd with witty questions?

With difficulty, Faramir reined himself in and focused on the query. Perhaps he might save some man and maiden from misery.

"I cannot find favor with it, sire," he replied, much to the surprise of the gathered company. Eyebrows darted upwards and lips twitched. Faramir ignored them all. "If you wish to strengthen any alliance, I would suggest diplomats, ambassadors, if you will. A marriage is much too permanent and…unnecessary at this time."

There was silence for a breath. Faramir dared to glance at Damrod and saw the old Ranger biting back a smile.

Yes, he had certainly buried himself now.

The King nodded his crowned head and turned back to the company. "Wise words," he said and tactfully steered the debate away from Rohan and marriage altogether.

* * *

With the meeting concluded, Faramir spilled out into the corridor, still sweating in his robes and feeling as though the weight of the world had once more been placed on his shoulders. Thankfully, the long hall was empty. He had been cautious enough to let the lords pass by first, feigning serious conversation with a royal scribe until the horde dispersed. Damrod had not lingered, rushing back to his happier home and wife. A pang of envy stuck a barb in Faramir's heart. But Damrod was a friend and he could never show jealousy.

Stumbling over to a low window, Faramir wrenched off the ugly slippers and leaned upon the stone sill. There was a pleasant breeze and autumn had yet to solidify, leaving the weather delightfully mild. Fresh, green grass swayed over the Pelannor, masking the blood and bones that had of late rested there. So much loss…so much….

It was in quiet moments when Faramir felt he could not withhold the grief that plagued him. He was quite accustomed to isolation and fending for himself in almost every manner, but now he was truly alone.

Father had never been one for conversation. But Boromir had shared his fears well enough for a time. With his passing, Faramir was left stranded, adrift upon a fathomless sea of distress and sorrow and every manner of vexation. Niriel was not one to mind his burdens, being too delicate to bear anything besides her own illness. There was hardly a week when healers did not attend to her and Faramir was left with his worries and wounds, expressing his tension by quietly skipping dinner and retiring to his study.

There was no Henneth Annun to retreat to now, no causeway that he might flee along to find solace for a time. But in truth, Niriel did not botherwith him. She kept to herself, a stranger that ate at his table, slept in his bed and moaned in her sleep because her side pained her. And coughed, yes, she was poisoned by that soul-shaking, heart-jolting cough that sent her handmaiden running for smelling salts.

Faramir let his eyes slide close. Ah, he was reminded of his mother.

The staccato rhythm of footsteps pattered down the corridor. Faramir straightened and pulled his slippers back on. The King was approaching.

Faramir inclined his body in a genteel, yet stiff bow, his spine aching a little from old wounds as he did so. The King likewise nodded, placing his hand lightly on his breast by way of greeting.

"My dear Steward, it is indeed good to have your company."

Faramir was shocked by the sudden congeniality of the King's tone and something of his surprise must have shown in his face, for Aragorn laughed.

"I fear you are angry with me," he said merrily, "for at first I was cold with you and I sense my chill sent you to Dol Amroth. And now upon your return, I prod you with unseemly questions. But forgive me. This old Ranger is still somewhat unsettled by the grandeur around him."

Faramir's lips parted and he searched for suitable, flattering words. But somehow, he sensed the King would not stand for sycophancy and he was not disposed to provide it.

"Only if you will forgive my cowardice," he replied at length. "And my distraction. _This _old Ranger is still undone by the all the pomp."

"A shrewd man you are at heart, I think." The King lifted his head and a clear light shone in his eyes, calm, confident and warm so that Faramir felt soothed.

"A fumbling man, my lord," he said. "So well my tongue used to serve me and now it is tied, twisted."

The King lifted his shoulders in a shrug, the velvet of his tunic rising like a blue mountain under shadow. "You speak well enough for me. It is the eyes of those hawks that endanger us so."

Faramir could not help but laugh, especially when a good number of the King's council did resemble the feathered fellows.

"Have I charmed you yet?" the King asked. "Or are you still so opposed to me?"

"I cannot tell." Faramir locked his hands behind his back. "That which appears fair might be foul."

The King's nostril's flared and his brows folded, knitting together in contemplation. "Then you are wise and I am glad for it. I thought I had bled the stones of this city quite dry in my search for sense."

"You have not looked hard enough, sire," Faramir replied, his tongue tasting tart. The King exhaled sharply and Faramir wondered if he had been a bit _too _cheeky.

He took a step back, awaiting the verbal slap back into place, the lashing bestowed on his pride that would leave him raw with leaking welts. Denethor had never shied from uncoiling the whip of his tongue and Faramir duly expected the thrashings.

But the King was silent and still, a wild oak with deep roots that held the trunk steady.

"Faramir," he said gravely.

The young Steward suppressed a shudder at the sound of his name. Directness he certainly did not anticipate.

"Faramir, I fear you have your hackles raised," the King continued. "Why? Do you begrudge the loss of power?"

"No, sire!" Faramir lurched forward, determined to pull the King's mind from the darker recesses spawned by an inherent struggle for supremacy. "You speak with one who would rather thrive on simplicity, not a lofty reign."

The King smiled wryly. "So I guessed. But you have not helped me pinpoint the trouble."

Faramir could only shake his head. Burdened though he was, he had no need to dispatch his woes to his liege lord.

"A long life I lived, sire, before ever you came to the White City."

The King accepted his response with usual grace. "Very well, I press you no further. But I will take a chance." He touched a weathered finger to his lips. "I have a favor to ask of you, my Steward."

Faramir feigned indifference with a careless nod.

The King took a breath before plowing ahead. "I dislike the notion of an arranged marriage with Rohan, for many, varied reasons. Diplomacy is a craftier, surer art than a hasty union." The King paused, eyes cutting up to Faramir and brimming with question.

"What would you have me do?" Faramir asked quietly, a phrase he had so often mouthed and almost always meant, despite personal opposition.

"Can I trust Rohan to you? Will you play the part of my ambassador for a time?"

Faramir's heart fluttered. What did the King offer him? Oh, certainly such a boon had not been granted! Rohan, ah to go to Rohan would be a pleasurable relief. Indeed, he did love Gondor and his White City of wisdom and beauty. But a brief time without Niriel's frail and flailing presence would certainly be blessing.

Guilt churned in the pit of Faramir's stomach. He clenched his fingers into fists and swallowed away his remorse with difficulty.

"I will go, sire," he replied, shame coating his throat like bile. He was, after all, plotting to avoid his sickly, lonely, child of a bride.

Faramir wondered if the King could detect the scent of strife, as he seemed perceptive in other things.

Accordingly, Aragorn clapped a heavy hand on his Steward's shoulder. "Perhaps you had best broach the subject with your lady wife first."

Faramir agreed, rather grudgingly and he felt more than a little discomforted by the knowing twinkle in the older man's eyes.

The weight settled once more onto Faramir's shoulders and he nibbled his lower lip.

Niriel would not be pleased. She rarely was.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Well, there you have it. Please take the time to review, I would love to hear your thoughts on the opening chapter. And to those who celebrate, have a very happy Thanksgiving! 


	3. Chapter Two

**Author's Note: **Hello and welcome to chapter two of "To Whatever End". I would like to extend my most sincere thanks to those who read the first chapter and those who reviewed, **Sarahbarr17**, **JWritten** and **sjgross**. Thank you all so much.

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Tolkien's masterpiece.

**Chapter Two**

Faramir had only just opened the door to his apartments when he heard the whisper of small feet fleeing across the stones and the murmur of a gown trailing behind. A sigh rattled his lungs and he stepped inside, letting the door close with a quiet click behind him.

Niriel wanted nothing to do with him, she rarely did.

He had seen her at breakfast, briefly, when she had taken a tiny sliver of ripe fruit and said she felt too ill to sit up with him. Faramir indulged her, he always did. It was a poor, but efficient method of keeping her happy.

A narrow, but elegant drawing room sat in center of his quarters, branching off into small, discreet chambers that existed less for courtly appearance and more for practicality. They had a dressing room apiece and he had a study. Their bedchamber was a large, garish thing, one that they both despised for its vastness and the utter feeling of emptiness it evinced. Decoration was sparse in most places. the drawing room alone boasting several silk-thread tapestries and heraldic devices.

Long, arched windows led out onto a balcony that he alone used. The healers had warned Niriel against cold airs, as if a single breeze would freeze her already decaying lungs. But Faramir never argued with them. His wife was still alive, after all.

Almost everything in their dwelling had a purpose, except for that dreaded chamber tucked just off her dressing room, the nursery. Once upon a when, Faramir had hoped it would house Niriel's little daughter Durwen and someday, their own children.

But Durwen was kept in Dol Amroth with her maternal grandmother. Why, Faramir had never discovered…nor dared to ask. She was a pleasant child, a creature who always brought him flowers whenever he visited and sang songs at her grandmother's urging. But the girl was otherwise a cheerless, frank creation of her mother's that called him "my lord" and now, "my lord Steward". Far too serious for a five-year old, Faramir thought, though his opinion mattered little when it came to his stepchild.

And then there was the matter of their own childless state. The most cantankerous members of the court whispered that Niriel was barren. Faramir, however, half-feared that he was to blame, since the healers maintained his wife was fit for child-bearing.

But Faramir was no longer keen in deciphering where the trouble lay. The burden of producing an heir had been lifted with the King's coming and he no longer had his harried father clamoring for a grandson.

The door to the nursery creaked open, exuding a fragrance of flowers, grown and kept in pots for his wife's enjoyment. Since she could not freely take the air a sort of indoor garden had been provided for her, a conservatory, she called it, like the one she had in Dol Amroth. Faramir had been inwardly against the arrangement at first and he felt as though converting the nursery into a planthouse would only further drive the prospect of procreation from their minds. But he was a hopeless man yet and would do what he could to please her.

Faramir removed his heavy outer robes and strolled over to the balcony. The windows had been shut against the descending evening chill. He threw one open, thrusting one leg outside to feel the breeze and smell the damp perfume of autumn.

A sigh eased the tension from his limbs. Another day over….

An annoyed grunt made him cringe and Faramir turned around to see Mithien, his wife's handmaid-betimes nursemaid-lifting his disheveled robes off the bench beside the hearth.

"My lord is late this evening," she mused, half to herself, but loud enough so Faramir could hear.

He stepped away from the window and crossed his arms over his chest.

"I had several words with the King."

"Contentious words?" The question was above her station, they both knew it, but Mithien was a reckless sort of woman and utterly miserable.

Tall, sharp-eyed and fairer than most, she had come from Dol Amroth as companion for Niriel, though the two only seemed to put up with each other. However, despite her harassing ways, she was not unpopular in the Citadel and Boromir had chuckled, in his rare, ribald moments, that he wished Mistress Mithien would be _his _nurse. She was married now, to one of Faramir's poor, hen-pecked Rangers though she outfitted herself more as the seneschal of her employer's household as opposed to a maid. Niriel had not the capacity to keep her in check, nor the disposition and Faramir hadn't the time.

Instead, she was largely ignored by them both until Faramir was sent away and needed someone to care for his wife.

He bit his tongue now, knowing full well that he would be forced to depend on her when he left for Rohan.

Rohan, yes, he would go if the King asked it of him. But how to break the news to Niriel? He hadn't the slightest notion.

"Will my lord take his supper?" Mithien asked. She folded his robes with a look of irritation and glanced at the long table shoved up against the far wall, meant for entertaining select members of the court but rarely used.

"Has my lady wife retired already?" Faramir parried her question with one of his own, useless though it was.

Mithien arched a black brow. "I have no idea."

"Then might I safely assume she will not join me?" Faramir reluctantly latched the window and smoothed back his wind-tousled hair.

Mithien shrugged. "I suppose."

Faramir frowned. Cheekiness was not something he readily tolerated. His Rangers knew that jesting was one matter and outright insubordination quite another. But Mithien, he sensed, was not a being to be controlled or governed, like his wife and she acted according to her own, separate will. Unfortunately for Faramir, however, that will was invariably at odds with his own.

"Then I will take my meal in my study." And he hurried past her, wishing the pervading sense of weariness that dominated his life would cease and loosen the ever-present knot of worry in his chest.

At the very least, he had Rohan to look forward to.

* * *

He was left alone for the greater part of the evening, taking his meal of meat and bread and cold wine on a unadorned platter with plain utensils. It was restoring, eating like a common man, a Ranger who was so accustomed to the on-your-feet lifestyle of camp and hit and run warfare.

Mithien was wise enough not to trouble him, except to say that his wife again had been to see the healers that afternoon. Faramir accepted her account whilst draining his wine goblet. Healers had become a dreaded entity, bearers of bad news that only deepened the lines of worry carved in his brow. And Niriel wasn't quite fond of them either.

But no more despair now. No more desperation. Faramir was resigned to spend the rest of his evening with a book and he reclined in the great chair behind his desk. Perhaps then he might decide how to deal with Rohan or at the very least, broach the subject with Niriel on the morrow.

He had but a short while to himself before she appeared, rather unexpectedly, her strangled voice only an octave above a whisper.

"My lord?"

His wife was but a shadow, a slip of a human being that now darkened the doorway to his study. Faramir was surprised to see her there. he stood, resting the book spine up on his desk.

"Niriel, I had not expected…" Faramir curbed his tongue, remembering that rambling words only seemed to frighten her and the creature before him preferred settled silence. Instead, he bowed.

She curtsied. "My lord."

Ah, how he despised the title, cold, detached thing that it was. And yet Niriel insisted on it. Faramir suspected it was all she had to cling to, a last vestige of semblance and order that kept them separated.

"Will you sit, my dear?" He pulled out his chair for her and as always, she hesitated.

"If I am not disturbing you, my lord."

"Never, my wife."

Niriel pressed her lips together, keeping them in a tight line until a cough wrenched them apart. Faramir trembled at the sound, the noise that had brought him much distress and disturbance of peace. His father had been furious when he discovered his son's new bride was ill.

"Say not that Faramir has been wed to a corpse," Denethor had railed at Imrahil, who had officially arranged the union.

"A summer sickness is what it is," Imrahil had retorted, uncharacteristically red-faced and enraged. "She shall weather it well enough. I know her kinsmen, a high and hearty clan they are."

But that had not soothed Denethor. For days he watched Niriel's progress, sending for healers to chase away the illness that had settled in her lungs. When all valiant efforts proved futile, he had declared, in front of most of his household, that the girl was "yet another young bride for the Hallows." After that, he had little to do with her.

The bitter irony was not lost on Faramir. His mother had died in such a manner. Weak, wasted, consumed.

Niriel slipped further into the room and slowly lowered herself into Faramir's chair with a grateful if not nervous smile. "What are you reading?" she asked, touching the binding of the book with her fingers.

"Poetry," he replied. "Poetry of the forests and dales and the greener places of this world."

"Oh." She slid her hands inside the folds of her gown.

Faramir knew his wife to be an avid reader. She had devoured his library within a year of coming to Minas Tirith and then shyly sent Mithien out to borrow books. At first, Faramir had reveled in her appetite and fed it with his own. He extended his own study and had a craftsman fashion her a small nook of a reading room, hoping that they might read together some evenings. But Niriel proved herself to be an enigma. She read but would not speak on her books, instead folding in upon herself, weaving a cocoon of disinterest and, as he feared, isolation.

Faramir found himself a seat in the corner across from her and cleared the chair from dusty scrolls. Niriel did not watch him move, but kept her eyes on her knees, her body jolting every now and then with a cough. Having seated himself, Faramir felt the predictable yet dreaded air of awkwardness descend, the shroud that smothered any of their happiness and almost always dominated their conversation.

And yet, something was different tonight.

Niriel was looking surprisingly rosy-cheeked, her eyes flecked with a rare current of energy.

Perhaps this was the perfect time to tell her of Rohan?

Faramir searched for the right words, the delicate, practiced words that would soften the blow and so ease her into security. For some indefinable, undeniable reason, he wanted Niriel to feel safe with him. It was a challenge, of course, in the way she distanced herself and drew far away from any meaningful connection that might form a bridge between them. But Faramir had been patient and relentless. If his wife would not love him, then he would at least have her trust him.

It took a good three years for her faith in him to grow to a distinguishable height. The War had sent her rushing into each his arms for a time, but now she had settled back into her old habits, those of a watchful yet constant companion.

But Faramir found he was fortunate in many ways. Thankfully, Niriel was not the suspicious sort. She never questioned his fidelity nor his care. She was a plaintive girl, not a demon and on most occasions she accepted his presence in her life willingly, living up to her reputation of compliance.

His wife was not one to complain, to correct him and nag him and harass him. No, she simply existed. Hid when she could, spoke when she was questioned and came when he summoned. Otherwise, she was capable lover, if not a little timid and did her best to please him.

Then why could he not love her?

Faramir drove the question away from the realms of understanding and thought. Hours he had spent trying to assess their marriage and hours he had wasted. In the end, he came to rely on a painful but accurate truth.

There was nothing to their union. Nothing at all.

And at times, Faramir feared he was no better than Niriel, trying his best to distance himself from the only person he could rely on.

Faramir was pulled from his ruminations by yet another dreaded sound. Niriel was tapping her foot again, a habit she acquired only when impatient-or deathly afraid. She had a tremulous look about her tonight and Faramir leaned forward in his chair, offering her his attention along with a smile.

"Niriel?"

She said naught for a while, her toes dusting the floor, echoing the dissonant rhythm of rain on stone.

"I fear I cannot balance things…in…in my mind," she stammered. Faramir did not interrupt her. She was easily flustered and he hated to thrust her back into her shy shell.

Niriel continued tapping her foot and finally she withdrew her hands and wrung them until the tiny blue veins cresting her knuckles bulged.

"You must pardon my…I am weary…words come slow." She stood then, pushing the chair back with surprising force.

Faramir likewise found his feet and dread climbed up his spine in the form of a shiver. He felt as though they were back in the cold days or so Boromir had dubbed them when Niriel refused any visitors after their wedding and seemed to be made of unthawing ice herself.

Faramir grimaced at the sharp, biting pain the memory brought. And Niriel, eternally observant, ever the wide-eyed girl with a mind too fast to be deceived, took his reaction for displeasure and shrank away.

"Your forgiveness, my lord." And then she was heading for the door, ghost-like arms outstretched to brace herself against the arched frame.

"I ask for none," Faramir replied quickly, but it was too late.

Niriel paused only for a moment, her hands falling across her abdomen, pressing close the fabric of her gown. Faramir recognized the roundness of her stomach and for a fleeting, rare moment, the thrill of joy left him numb.

"The healers say you will soon have your heir," Niriel said over her shoulder, disappearing into the dim corridor. "A shame your father is not here to see it."

* * *

**Author's Note: **I have decided to remain a bit ambiguous about Niriel's illness here, but for those med students out there, she has what is commonly known as consumption or tuberculosis. However, I am not sure if TB would exist in a medically advanced city like Minas Tirith, so all you purists may certainly correct me if you've read otherwise. As always, thanks so much for taking the time to read. Please, leave a quick review if you can. I greatly appreciate any and all feedback. Here's what's in store for the next chapter.

Chapter Three: Faramir frantically tries to make arrangements for his departure to Rohan while Niriel flat out refuses to be left behind against the arguments of her physicians. And what do King Elessar and his Elven Queen think about the matter?

Have a great week everyone!


	4. Chapter Three

**Author's Note: **Hello and welcome to chapter three of "To Whatever End". I do apologize for the delay in updating, but unfortunately I've been rather distracted with final exams. However, the good news is I am finally wrapping up my fall semester so I will have over a month free to write. I would like to thank everyone who took the time to read the last chapter and those that reviewed, **Sarahbarr17**, **That Tath**, **Light Saber Muffins**, **bubblymuggle4**, **Kyoluva731**, and **JWritten**. Thank you all so much and I do hope you enjoy chapter three.

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Tolkien's masterpiece. However, I do own all OCs mentioned herein.

**Chapter Three**

Faramir tried to refrain from drumming his fingers on his knee, but the habit was horribly ingrained and the twitch returned to his hands, making his knuckles quiver. Of course, the King Elessar was the epitome of composure, the picture of self-control as he sat across from Faramir, hands tucked inconspicuously beneath his chin. His lord's stillness, however, only heightened the Steward's frustration and with a defeated sigh, he rose to his feet and stumbled over to the open window.

"Forgive me, my king, but there has been a complication."

Elessar cleared his throat a little and inclined his head. "Go on."

"Please understand, sire," Faramir babbled, "that I want nothing more than to go to Rohan. It would be an honor, sire, a great honor to act as your diplomat, to speak in your name. And I am overwhelmed, sire, by the very offer."

A moment's pause. Plump raindrops splashed against the stone casement and Faramir ignored the water now pelting the sleeve of his state robes. The King's study was deceptively dark this time of day, with the fire low in the hearth and all the windows shuttered save one.

Shadows fell over the ornate desk that housed the King's seal and a dozen or so important missives that all required his signature at once. There was something overwhelming about the chamber, Faramir decided and he was happy now for his position as Steward, which was quite dwarfed by the King's duty.

Elessar leaned forward in his chair, a lock of chestnut hair dangling over his brow. "You won't go to Rohan, then," he said and to Faramir's surprise, appeared greatly disappointed. "Or perhaps I have been hasty and come to the wrong conclusion…I do hope."

And in that moment, Faramir himself felt the crushing weight of displeasure, along with the searing sting of guilt. He wanted to go to Rohan, yes, he yearned to. But Niriel had nearly fallen into hysterics when he informed her of the planned journey and she wept that after all these years, he would not even be in the city for the birth of his child.

Faramir had managed to calm her just before Mithien went dashing for the smelling salts, though as he had drifted off to sleep that night, his mind was plagued with irritation and harried were his dreams.

"Sire," Faramir began but did not know what to say. Any mention of his situation would bring about questions, no doubt and he would be forced to reveal the lack of martial bliss in his life. However, he did feel as though he owed the King some sort of explanation. The man had put his faith in him and now Faramir had proven himself unreliable.

"Sire, it is against my will," he said at last.

The King cocked his head, inquisitiveness seeping into his already keen eyes. "Against your will, my Steward? Does some rogue hold you hostage?"

Faramir cringed. Was the King jesting or did annoyance infuse his tone? He could not tell. "No, sire. I am a free man, well, mostly. But…but I am wed to a woman is oft in poor health, delicate my brother used to call her, like an eggshell. She cannot tolerate much, very little, in fact and I-"

"And you do not wish to leave her?" Their was appreciation in the King's eyes now and he smiled a little, one hand falling upon the polished top of the desk.

Again, Faramir felt himself wince. Should he lie to his liege lord? _Could _he lie?

"No, my lord, it is not that," he continued, feeling suddenly breathless. "Niriel withstood our previous partings well enough, but I fear….as it is…she is with child, my lord."

Elessar nodded and laughter ruptured his stoic bearing. "How wondrous! I am so very pleased for you, my Steward. This child is your first, yes?"

"Indeed, my lord," Faramir replied. The rain was steady now and he was obliged to latch the shutters over the window. "But Niriel has a daughter of her own already, widowed she was. This babe will be my first, however."

"I understand now your hesitation." Elessar stood and rounded his desk, one hand extended in warm congratulations. Faramir accepted the King's hand nervously, his own palm slick compared to Elessar's dry flesh. "Certainly you wish to stay by your wife's side."

With difficulty, Faramir swallowed away his rising guilt. No, he would much rather be in Rohan during the nine months. And then yes, he would of course return for the birth. He was not an utterly desolate man, after all and he did desperately want a child.

"You falter, my Steward." The King released his hand. "Why such trepidation?"

Faramir forced himself to look into the man's eyes. "It was my lady wife who was against my going, sire." And oh he felt like a wretch then, a horrid villain and he glanced away.

The King was silent and Faramir hated the stillness. It enveloped him. Of course, the King would not understand ,for he possessed the foreign happiness Faramir had only dreamed of. And Niriel and he were fair liars. The pantomime of there life was perfect. No one suspected…no one knew.

The King inhaled, moved back to his chair and sat, left Faramir standing there, swamped by his shame.

He felt exposed, revealed and wondered what the King thought now. Would he trust a Steward that would readily desert his wife, a man who wished to flee a life restricted by awkwardness and uncertainty?

Faramir chewed at the inside of his cheek. Perhaps he should have said nothing at all.

But then Elessar smiled, a gracious grin that lifted Faramir's heart at once.

"You have little cause to be shamed, my Steward," he said, "and do not think understanding eludes me."

"As it does most men," Faramir replied, his words a dull bleat that warred with the patter of rain outside.

"Which is why I opposed a marriage with Rohan. But you should not worry. I daresay, your existence has been fretful enough, dear Faramir. I sympathize, however, I do not commiserate."

Faramir managed to smile wryly and seated himself once more. "I beg of you, sire, do not think that my…opposition to my lady stems from dislike, quite the opposite. Yes, there the problem lies, we are opposites at heart and she wilts beneath any joy we might have. Young were we on our wedding day and she is still but a child. I do so pity her."

"As do I," Elessar agreed, "though pity does little, I should think. And I should be a scoundrel to tear you from her. You see, my Steward, even a King hesitates to cross the agitated lady wife." He chuckled a little. "Though perhaps the matter might be smoothed over. You may venture to Rohan for two months or less, if she is so distraught."

"A mild word distraught is, my lord," Faramir said grimly, remembering his wife's displeasure the night before.

The King inclined his head, now taking his turn and tapping his fingers on the desktop. "You win my admiration, Faramir, for I sense your care, your tenderness still after long years of failure. Not even the most love struck husband is so considerate. You demean yourself harshly and unfairly, I think."

Faramir felt a sudden warmth in his chest, a wave that for a moment stole away the tension and made him calm. "A man can only try," he said softly. "And try I have."

"And yet it is wrong to forsake the hope of happiness now," the King continued and he was grave for a moment, lines of thought pressed into his brow. "A child might yet bring you joy-"

But he could not finish, for a page had run up to the door and was pounding upon it.

"Enter."

Both Faramir and the King were attentive, though neither of them anticipated the bothered healer that was admitted. Faramir recognized the young man by face and nodded his head in quiet greeting. Yet the pale, dark-eyed fellow could only pant, clutching at a stitch in his side as raindrops still slid down his cheeks.

"My King, your deepest pardon. My lord Steward, I am sent as a messenger from the Houses. Your wife, they say, your wife…you are to come at once. I was told of little-no ill as it may be-but you are to come at once."

The fierceness of the healer's tone sent Faramir springing to his feet. Memories of other haunted occurrences when Niriel had fallen deathly ill and retched blood rang through his mind.

He glanced once at the King, opened his mouth to beg for leave but found his lord at his heels, ushering both healer and Steward out of the chamber.

"Haste serves us well on this occasion," he said in a measured voice. "Come, let us go quickly now."

* * *

Faramir was admitted at once into a small chamber nestled within the herb-scented halls of the Houses of Healing. The room was not unfamiliar to him, a place where Niriel often went when her cough worsened or when the healers thought her health too poor. The King had been good enough to remain outside, although Faramir was grateful for the steady company his sovereign provided. He always hated his ventures to the Houses, marred with fresh worry as they were and seemingly perilous. But to his surprise, he found Niriel standing now, hands crossed over her middle, head held high. She was attended by Ioreth.

Faramir felt his mouth drop open. His wife was not pale, no, but flushed…and angry.

He had never seen her vexed before.

Relief drenched him at first. So she wasn't ill again. But then what? Keen irritation made him fidget and he cleared his throat.

It was Ioreth who noticed his presence first and she stood, head bowed in matronly respect.

"Oh my lord, I had not expected your arrival so soon. What did my apprentice tell you, I wonder? So white you are! Do come in though, do come."

Niriel sputtered when she saw him and withdrew.

"He was not to be sent for," she mumbled. "So said I. Ioreth, why have you betrayed me?"

"For your health, my lady." And now Ioreth was beckoning him, bidding him sit in a small chair while she shuffled over to Niriel and pulled her away from the open windows. "And little good it does you to stand where the wind reaches. Ah, reckless youth. Will you never learn?"

Niriel blushed even more and Faramir sank into the chair, dumbfounded.

"Is something not amiss?" he asked in a voice that was harsher than intended. "I was at council with the King."

Both Ioreth and Niriel stared at him.

"See," his wife mewed. "You see the trouble you've caused me Ioreth, oh, I begged you to let it be."

But Ioreth was adamant and she tossed her head, grey veil flapping like a dove's wing. "My lady heeds no reason," she told them both, her tone matter-of-fact, motherly. "Please, my lord Steward, tell me of this Rohan business."

"Oh!" Niriel had her hands over her face now and she walked away, her back to them.

Faramir choked back a sigh. "I do believe I can guess at the quandary."

Niriel's shoulders shook and when she spoke, her voice was strained. "My lord, I did not mean for…oh…I beg…please…do not be mad."

"Well, I certainly am," Ioreth huffed. Faramir allowed her indignity, having long become used to her presence which was more often than not found in his wife's company. "You've aged me ten years this morn alone."

Niriel did not reply and Faramir felt his frustration slip away.

"It matters not," he lied. "And I am not angered. But what is all this? I had feared, yes, I feared some dark occurrence."

"Stubbornness, my lord." Ioreth nodded at Niriel. "She insists that she go to Rohan with you."

Faramir felt his heart drop into his stomach. "Oh?"

"Yes and I have advised her against it." Ioreth now had her hands on her hips, her pleasant face sharp with annoyance. "But she has given me a time of it, quite a time. She will go, she says. Nay, think I. The journey alone will be a trial and certainly, she will find little comfort in the halls of the horsemen, little comfort indeed when the cough rattles her."

Faramir touched his tongue to his lips. So he had been called to settle his wife once more, to smooth over any vexation and keep her calm. But Niriel seemed unreachable now, her shoulders drawn together in a defensive stance he knew all to well. And then suddenly she turned around, slowly, and in a voice that pinched his heart, begged that he might let her go.

"I shouldn't wish to be alone," she finished and tears, ah, there were cursed tears in her eyes.

Faramir was undone.

His fingers kneaded his temple, strove to chase away the pain of an oncoming headache.

"Niriel," he began, but the door opened. The King entered.

"Your pardon, mother Ioreth," he said, his soft voice quelling the commotion that arose at his arrival.

Niriel looked as though she might faint.

"My king." Both women dropped into curtsies, but the King waved away the formality.

"My dear lady, I am so glad to see you well." And now he was stepping forward, reaching for Niriel's tiny hand. She recoiled, her eyes wide, panicked.

Faramir found his feet. "Sire, I do apologize for the interruption of our council, I-"

But the King was watching his wife intently, his hand closed over hers and a smile lifting his lips. "If I might ask, my lady, without seeming so very improper, do you often go out of doors?"

Niriel, now a mute in her terror, shook her head.

Ioreth recovered from her shock first and interceded.

"It is not permitted, my lord," she said. "The wind goes straight into her lungs and there it festers."

"Hmm." The King nodded gravely. "And that is ill?"

Ioreth blanched. "Indeed!"

Niriel looked ready to swoon and gently, Faramir stepped forward, guiding her into a chair.

"My lord, I do beg your pardon."

But the King was chuckling. "Mother Ioreth, you shall hate me yet, I fear. For it is my opinion that the lady be out of doors. Often. And perhaps now the air of Gondor has grown stale for her. Perhaps she _should _go to Rohan. Ah, it is a wild, windy land, but clear, clean. She might breathe better then, I think."

Now it was Ioreth turn to act the mute and Faramir himself was silent, though understanding came to him quickly.

The King needed him in Rohan. It was the only way, the only way he might go without Niriel being troubled and so falling ill once more.

"Sire," his wife breathed. She had a hand on her breast. "Do you think it may be so?"

The King continued to smile merrily, though now he looked at Faramir, his eyes dark with sincerity.

"Indeed, my lady," he replied, nodding by way of apology.

Faramir shook his head carelessly. All was forgiven.

* * *

As the King entered the courtyard just outside his private apartments, he paused to adjust his tunic and shake the scent of healing herbs from his hair. Arwen, fastidiously curious as she was, would likely jump to a conclusion before he could account for his absence. And knowing his dear wife, her guess would be right and Elessar did not quite know how to explain his Steward's predicament.

Elves, creatures assuredly made for love, had little understanding of state marriages. The King's own knowledge of the subject was rather limited, as it was and he disliked the thought of putting poor Faramir to shame just now.

He stood for a moment then and let his lungs seep in the rain-kissed air that fell upon the city walls. The stones were wet, shining like little gems beneath his booted feet. Elessar smiled, remembering the jewel his own lady had bestowed on him when…

"The King's hands are indeed those of a healer's, but does he intend to steal the livelihood of his learned brothers?" A clear, merry voice sounded in the courtyard, it's echo akin to the peal of a dainty bell.

The King could not withhold a smile. Arwen strolled sedately towards him, skirts strewn at her feet, not lifted, catching every errant raindrop. She was a lady of the forest indeed, one accustomed to friendly leaves and twigs and thick moss.

He raised a brow. "It is said the curiosity killed the cat."

"And I am no feline," she purred, taking his arm. "But while I am about it, what brought you to the Houses, my lord? I do hope you did not abandon your poor Steward, he is a kindly man-a warm ally, I would think."

"Ever you are thoughtful," Elessar quipped. "But let us move indoors. My chatter is not pleasant and I should hate for gossip to abound."

Arwen's eyes flickered, rays of Elven wisdom at play with her inherently youthful mirth. "Yes." And she allowed herself to be led within until they stood together in a quiet corridor.

The King leaned upon a smooth pillar and wiped the fresh dew from his brow with a sigh. "I have of late come from the Houses, it is true, Arwen. But I was there with Lord Faramir himself. His wife was in great need."

"Oh?" Her brow creased ever so slightly. "I have heard she is sickly."

"And keen your ears are. With child she is, their first."

Arwen touched a quivering finger to her mouth. "A babe? Oh, such a blessing! Yes, a blessing indeed!" And she laughed then, a sprightly sound that ignored age and years of worrisome woe.

The King cringed. Yes, children-or elflings as they might be-were quite a gift and Arwen herself had little experience with them amongst her own kind, though often she expressed her maternal yearning. But for some reason, Elessar could find little reason to be happy.

"There is turmoil which I dare not speak on," he murmured. "A rather defined gap between husband and wife, I fear. They are strangers still and their marriage was the work of state."

"Folly." Arwen crossed her arms over her breast. "Sheer folly. For what is wedlock without love? Why, it defies the very word!"

"Foreign are these ways to me as well," the King agreed, "but I beg you to understand or at least try. Things lie differently in Gondor."

"Evidently." Arwen's lips puckered. "And oh, the sorrow for Lord Faramir and his wife. But ah, where is my mind? Did you not say he was to go Rohan?"

The King hesitated. "Yes and I fear I have done them both a wrong. Whatever their situation, husband and wife should not be separated during the time of child bearing and she is sickly as it is…part of me fears her delicate condition will get the worst of her. I suggested they go together."

"I must scold you then," Arwen huffed, tapping him lightly on the wrist. "If she is weak, then why send her so far away?"

"Another matter you would not understand."

Unfortunately, the King realized his error after he had spoken. Arwen wrinkled her nose in annoyance.

"You belittle me, sire?" she asked, but their was amusement in her voice.

"Never." And he kissed the tip of one of her leaf-shaped ears. "There is some reason in my thought, I believe. Rohan might do her well. I have heard, yes, I have heard amongst some Men learned in healing that sicknesses of the lungs might be cleared by clean air. And Faramir's wife would certainly find such comforting breezes in Rohan. You see, I am not the fool you married."

"Pity." Arwen pouted playfully. "I shall miss him. Let us hope, however, that your Steward and his lady find some deeper healing than that of the lungs in Rohan. Do I dare suggest that such a notion was also behind your reasoning?"

The King did not answer, but let the knowing twinkle in his eyes tell all.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Thanks so much for reading. Please take the time to review and share your thoughts with me. Chapter Four-Eowyn's long-awaited entrance-will be posted soon. Have a great week! 


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